Where Do I Go? (7 page)

An elevated train rattled and squealed its way into the station, stopped, and the car doors slid open. People got off. People got on. “This is ours. Red Line,” Josh said, beckoning to me. Feeling foolish for my wobbly knees, I stepped gingerly into the car across what seemed like a big, wide crack and grabbed the nearest pole. Josh and Gracie swung into one of the molded plastic seats. “Come on. Sit down. It's safer.”

I sank into the seat beside them as the elevated train jerked and picked up speed. I blushed. “Sorry. Heights are sometimes a problem for me.”

“That's all right. Is this your first time on the El?”

I repeated my story about just moving to Chicago a week ago, we didn't really know anyone, we had an “apartment” in one of the high-rises, my husband was going into business here with a partner . . . while Gracie pulled herself up on her foster daddy's lap and stared at the people in the seats behind us.

“What about you, Josh?” I cocked my head so I could see his face. Nice-looking kid. College age, if you asked me. Sandy hair, a bit shaggy, but that seemed to be the style these days. “How long have you and Edesa been married?”

He laughed. “Since Christmas! Let's see . . . almost four months.”

“Four months! But . . . how long have you had Gracie?” Didn't these kids know it made sense to wait awhile before starting a family? Even a honeymoon pregnancy would've given them nine months to get used to each other.

He grinned again. “Five months. She's the reason we got married.
When
we did, I mean. We were engaged but planning to wait till we both finished school.”

“And Edesa? She speaks such fluent Spanish! What is her background?—Oh, I'm sorry, Josh. I know I'm asking too many personal questions.”

Josh laughed. “It's all right. She's from Honduras. Came to Chicago on a student visa. Just like there are African-Americans, there are African-
Central-
Americans—oh. This is your stop, Mrs. Fairbanks. Berwyn, see? When you get down to the street, just walk two blocks over to Sheridan, then turn left—that'll be north. Should only be a block or so to your high-rise. You'll be all right? The rain doesn't look too bad.”

I nodded, shoring up my confidence. “Thanks, Josh. I appreciate it. Best wishes with Gracie's adoption.” I stood and was swept out the door with other disembarking passengers. A moment later, the train was gone.

Down on the street level, I walked the two blocks to Sheridan Road, crossed the street and turned left. Sure enough, I saw Richmond Towers up ahead, jutting into the air like a giant glass tube that had been fast frozen. But Josh was wrong about the rain. I managed to get downright soaked by the time I pushed through the revolving doors of the Sheridan Road entrance into the lobby.

Mr. Bentley looked up from behind the half-moon counter that gave him full view of both entrances. I'd already figured out that the true urbanites—the ones with no cars, who walked everywhere or used public transportation—used the Sheridan Road entrance. Those with cars used the frontage road entrance, near the parking garage. I felt proud of myself, going out and making it back again
sans
car.

The bald doorman with the wiry gray beard rimming his jawline peered at me over the top of the reading glasses he'd been using to read the newspaper. “Mrs. Fairbanks.”
Not hello or good
afternoon. Just saying my name, the way a teacher might if I walked
into class late.
“You are wet again. You seem to have a knack for getting caught in the rain without an umbrella.”

I didn't have the guts to say,
“So? None of your business.”
Besides, maybe the man was just joking with me. I chose joking. “Yep. Except this time I have my shoes on, and I'm not bleeding.” I tossed him my best grin.

The eyebrows went up. “Uh-huh.
And
you did not bring home any strays today. Mm, three out of four isn't bad for a new-comer.” He grinned at me. “You'd better get into some dry clothes, Mrs. Fairbanks, before you catch a whopping Chicago spring cold.”

I left him chuckling and headed for the elevator. But he had it wrong. I'd managed to avoid
four
out of
five
of yesterday's “sins.” Today I was getting home
before
my husband, and I had plenty of time to get out of my wet capris and sweater, take a long, hot bath, and get gussied up for our theater date tonight.

chapter 6

Philip was pleased that I was dressed and ready to go when he got home. I freshened my makeup while he showered and changed clothes, watching as he dressed in dark gray wool slacks, a black silk shirt, and a light gray two-button sport coat. At forty-one, he was still incredibly good looking, no paunch, with a hint of that boyish glint in his eye that had first attracted me.

“Did the cleaning woman work out today?” he said, pulling on a pair of Gucci loafers.

“Yes, fine.” I decided not to mention that I'd left her alone a good portion of the time she was here on her first day. Would he mind? Good grief, cleaning services had to be bonded or some-thing, didn't they? “Her name is Camila.”

“Oh. Got the tickets?”

I could tell he wouldn't remember her name. He might never meet her. Even her check would go to the cleaning service, not to her personally.

As Philip drove our Lexus through the wet streets, I was captivated by the way each drop on the windshield briefly captured glints of streetlights before it was swiped away. My thoughts drifted with each swipe . . . how had Camila ended up in Chicago in the first place? Had she always cleaned other people's houses? Did she have a husband? Kids? Uncles and cousins living in the same house? That was the stereotype, anyway—

“What's that address again?”

“What?—oh.” I squinted at the ticket packet.
Blue Man Group.
Briar Street Theater.
“North Halsted . . . there, isn't that it? Wow, I didn't know it'd be so close.” We'd only been driving ten or fifteen minutes. Could this be near the Manna House shelter? For a moment I felt as if I'd come through a time warp. I'd spent a good part of the day at a shelter for homeless women, eating taco salad off a paper plate with a crusty old woman named Lucy . . . and now here I was, attending a popular show on Chicago's hip north side, if the number of restaurants, good-looking folks in late-model cars trolling for parking spots, and people in evening dress, dashing about under umbrellas on a rainy Friday night, meant anything.

Parking was terrible. Philip finally let me out in front of the theater and told me to look for the Fenchels while he parked . . . which was crazy, given the crowd inside the foyer, waiting for the doors to open. The chatter sounded like a false-teeth convention—not exactly the opera crowd, which was okay by me. Finally I spotted Henry Fenchel at the bar, flirting with the barista while she twisted the cap on a bottle of Sam Adams and handed it to him along with a glass of white wine.

As he turned, Henry's eye caught mine. “There you are! Philip parking the car? Say, would you like a drink? You can have this one. I don't know where Mona disappeared to.”

“Right here, darling.” Mona Fenchel seemed to appear out of nowhere and took the glass of wine. “But we can get another one.” She smiled sweetly. “Chardonnay?”

I shook my head. A glass of wine with no food in my stomach, and I'd be loopy enough to dance on the piano if they had one. “Thanks anyway. Philip will be here shortly.” I hoped. I wasn't sure I could handle two Fenchels by myself.

Mona raised her glass happily. “Good thing it's Holy Week or whatever they call it. Otherwise I don't think we could have got-ten weekend tickets at the last minute. Thank God for keeping the Christians and Jews occupied elsewhere.” She giggled.

It was all I could do to keep my mouth from dropping open. If God wanted to strike her dead right then, it would be all right with me. Although if I remembered my Bible stories correctly, the earth opening up or fire falling from heaven usually consumed a good many bystanders too.
Forget it, God,
I muttered silently.
Do
it when I'm not around.

To my relief, Philip finally showed up, a bit damp. Mona looked him over and then glanced at my outfit—silk mauve blouse, contrasting fawn-colored slacks and jacket, and sling-back heels. “You're both so dressed up,” she purred. “We should have told you to come casual.”

For the first time I noticed that both she and Henry were wearing jeans—designer jeans, but denim nonetheless. She giggled and sipped her wine. “Sometimes the audience gets a bit splattered during the performance. But . . .” She fingered the material of my jacket. “If you get it dry-cleaned right away, any stains should come out.”

I could feel my back arch.
Get your hands off my jacket! Did it
occur to you to tell us how to dress for this show?
But I said nothing, slipped my hand through Philip's arm as the doors opened, and followed an usher to our seats.

I had no idea what to expect from the Blue Man Group, but the stone-faced trio, covered head to foot in blue paint, put on a freewheeling performance that left us feeling giddy and breath-less—a circus of wacky percussion, banging on drums, and “making music” with PVC plumbing tubes. We couldn't help but laugh until our sides ached.

It felt good to have a good time. I was aware of Philip's arm resting across my shoulders and the occasional squeeze he gave me as we shared laughter. We'd laughed a lot before the boys were born . . . before the business started to take up more and more of Philip's time. Or more of his heart.

I was starving by the time we were seated at Jack's on Halstead after the show, and I ate more than my share of the crab cakes we ordered for an appetizer. I knew better. Should have eaten something before we left home. Even after fifteen years of marriage to money and nightlife, I wasn't used to eating dinner at ten o'clock at night.

I'd genuinely enjoyed the show—bizarre as it was—but after the four of us rehearsed all our favorite acts through asparagus-tips- and-spring-greens salad, my gas ran out and I barely ate the grilled lemongrass-encrusted salmon I'd ordered. Talk turned to business, and I tuned out, suddenly feeling bushed. Philip didn't seem to notice, as long as I added a seemingly alert “Mm” or “Uh-huh” from time to time.

Mona's comment about Holy Week still bothered me. The young couple I'd met today—Josh and Edesa Baxter—said they were attending Good Friday services tonight. And Edesa's little Bible study at the shelter had actually been interesting. I'd never thought about how the Jewish Passover fit hand in glove with Jesus and what happened on Good Friday so many years ago.
What was their Good Friday service like?
I wondered. A far cry from the Blue Man Group performance, I was sure of that! Which had been a lot of fun . . . but I squirmed inside, thinking maybe it wasn't the most appropriate thing on the night Christians were remembering the terrible crucifixion of the Son of God.

You hypocrite,
I scolded myself. I'd parked my Christianity on a backseat years ago. Why should it bother me what we did on a weekend night, Good Friday or not? Still, just being at the Manna House shelter today had touched a nerve—touched something—that felt a little tender.

“You're awfully quiet,” Philip said on our way home. The rain had stopped, and we actually had the windows down, breathing in the cool, damp air.

I tried to read his tone. Just commenting? Asking why? Annoyed?
Whatever.
“Mm. Just tired.” Then I added, “I enjoyed the evening.”
In spite of Mona Fenchel.

He looked at me sideways. “Good. I'm glad. I know the move happened pretty fast, Gabby, but I think you'll like it here. Chicago's an exciting city. Henry was telling me . . .”

Hm.
Philip was certainly being pleasant tonight. Should I tell him about finding my way about the city on my own today? Of course, then I'd have to mention that I ended up at the homeless shelter to see Lucy. But maybe that was okay. At least she was at the shelter and not in our penthouse! I smiled to myself, remembering how Lucy had laughed at the little scenario when we two drowned rats had come barging in on Philip and the Fenchels . . .

“I think ‘Fairbanks and Fenchel Development Corporation' will make a good name for the business, don't you?” Philip was saying. “Has a nice alliteration. ‘Fairbanks and Fenchel' . . . We're going to sign the partnership papers on Monday. Just . . .” He paused and looked at me sideways. “Just don't do anything stupid, Gabrielle. Like, you know, the business with the bag lady. Things like that can sour a business relationship in a hurry.”

I pressed my lips together. I wanted to shout,
Her name is Lucy!
But decided, no, this wasn't exactly the time to tell my husband I'd eaten lunch with the bag lady.

I called the boys Saturday morning—the second weekend my boys were spending their weekly break from the academy with their grandparents in Petersburg, Virginia, instead of with their father and me. I tried to be upbeat and positive on the phone. “Hey, how'd your Latin test go, P.J.? . . . You're going to try out for lacrosse next year? That's neat, kiddo! . . . Yeah, yeah, I know you gotta go. What are you and Granddad doing today? . . . Oh, wow. Virginia Beach! Sounds like fun. What are you going to—the aquarium? Yeah, I heard it was great . . . Wait a minute, P.J. Put Paul on for a sec, will you?”